A Watson When You Need One
by englishtutor
Summary: What if John and Mary had not lost their only child? What would this small Watson be like? A shameless departure from canon. I should apologize. But I won't. To read about how John and Mary lost their baby, see the chapter entitled "A Price Too High" in my story called "Making Friends and Forming Alliances."
1. Chapter 1

An AU of my AU. This entirely pointless bit of fluff was inspired by a two-year-old acquaintance of mine attempting to pronounce the name "Sherlock" and failing most amusingly.

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The sudden weight on his leg was the first he noticed that his young charge was up and about. Sherlock tore his attention away from his microscope and peered under the kitchen table to see the little blond head and two little fists settled on his lap.

"Good morning, Ian," Sherlock said. The two and a half year old rolled his head back and forth in a lethargic 'no'. "I see you have inherited your mother's wake-up skills," the detective observed wryly.

The tiny shoulders heaved in a sigh much too big for such a little body. Sherlock smiled in spite of himself. Ian Watson might wake up like his mother, but he sighed like an exact clone of his father. Sherlock laid a hand on the boy's head and carefully scooted his chair away from the kitchen table, successfully bringing the child out from beneath it. Ian took this as an invitation and clambered sleepily onto his uncle's lap. Now Sherlock could no longer reach his microscope. He was trapped.

It was not an unpleasant trap, however. In the last two years, he had learned a great deal from this remarkable little human. For example, he had learned that the trust of a child was a precious thing that even he was resolved never to take for granted or disappoint. The tousled blond head that rested over his heart had long since made him desire and determine deep inside himself to prove worthy of that trust; to be the sort of man that this little boy believed him to be. It was a feeling he'd never had before in his life, and he wasn't sure he liked it. The responsibility was enormous and daunting. But it was there, all the same, and he knew it wasn't going away. He was hooked for life.

Sherlock had been tasked with minding Ian on many occasions in the past two years, but this was the first time he'd been solely responsible for the child for more than a few hours at a time. John and Mary had planned this much-needed getaway weekend for months, only to find at the last minute that Molly was called upon to work overtime and Mrs. Hudson had injured her hip and was in no shape to keep up with an active two-year-old. Sherlock had offered his services, and at length was able to convince his friends that he could take care Ian with a bit of help from Mrs. Hudson. He and Ian had had a marvelous time the previous day, playing games, reading books, and sorting through Sherlock's skull collection. A round of hide and seek had required that the hider jump out at the seeker and roar whenever the inclination struck. Sherlock had discovered that roaring could be quite therapeutic.

"Aren't you going to speak to me this morning, Ian?" Sherlock inquired, amused.

Ian shook his head.

"Are you troubled about something?"

Ian hesitated, then nodded.

"Had a bad dream, did you?" Sherlock deduced. A great sigh. "Would you care to tell me what it was about?"

Ian pulled a deep breath, then ventured, "Gwendo's bad."

In retrospect, Sherlock considered that perhaps _Beowulf_ was inappropriate material for a two-year-old's bedtime story. Now it was time for damage control. "You're right, Ian, Grendel _was_ bad. But Beowulf stopped him from hurting anyone else, didn't he? Now Grendel is gone and can't hurt anyone else."

"Dad could beat Gwendo," Ian maintained.

"Oh, that would be easy for your Dad," Sherlock agreed heartily. "I've seen your Dad defeat creatures much more frightening than Grendel."

"Cabbies," Ian nodded knowingly, and Sherlock smirked. He might not, perhaps, have been wise in telling Ian that particular story, but it had been fun.

Ian thought a moment. "You could beat Gwendo, too, Sh'ock," he generously assured his uncle.

Sherlock smiled. He had long since reconciled himself to Ian's slurred mispronunciation of his name, although he did not appreciate the perverse delight that _certain people_ took in it. "Do you think so?" he asked with uncharacteristic modesty.

Ian nodded, then changed the subject abruptly, apparently ready to move on past his nightmare. "When is Mum and Dad comin' home?"

Sherlock had to stop himself from reflexively correcting the boy's grammar. 'His vocabulary is prolific for his age, Sherlock,' Mary had told him. 'The grammar and pronunciation will come along in time. Be patient with him.' Instead, he chose to address apparent memory lapses. "You have asked me this question thirteen times since they left yesterday morning. What has the answer been every time?" he prompted.

"Tea-time tomorrow," Ian sighed. "That's for-ever, Unco Sh'ock."

"No it isn't. We'll have such fun, the time will go by like that," Sherlock snapped fingers encouragingly.

Ian looked up into Sherlock's face and crinkled his blue eyes in thought. "Is firteen too many times to ask?" he inquired. His uncle's conscience smote him. How many times had a young Sherlock been shut down for asking too many questions?

"You can never ask too many questions, Ian. Ask as many questions as you like, as many times as you like," he assured the child.

Ian rewarded him with a sunny smile that was an exact replica of John's. He slid down to the floor and held up his hands proudly. "I can count to firteen," he announced.

"Can you? Well, show me then!" Sherlock encouraged him.

Ian started out quickly, counting off on his fingers. "One-two-free-fo-fife," he slurred, then slowed down. "Sick, seveh, nate, nine, ten." Now he had run out of fingers and hesitated. "Twelf, firteen," he concluded. Sherlock nodded agreeably.

"Very good job, Ian. You did one to ten perfectly. But I believe that if you review your work, you will find that you inadvertently left out a number. Can you think which one it is?"

Ian's face screwed up in intense thought, then he frowned. "I don't wike eweven," he objected.

Sherlock nodded solemnly. "I don't blame you," he intoned. "It's a troublesome number, but it does serve a purpose. If you skip it, your count will not be accurate."

"Okay," Ian nodded. "Unco Sh'ock, when's breakfast?"

"Hmm," Sherlock looked at the paper Mary had firmly affixed to his cupboard door with a steak knife. "Feeding you regular meals is on list your Mum gave me. What would you like for breakfast?"

"Cake!" Ian exclaimed, chuckling at his little joke.

"Oh, you've been talking to Mycroft again, haven't you?" Sherlock pretended to sigh.

"Mum baked a cake for Myc'oft, but he didn' share," Ian informed him, clearly aggrieved.

"That rascal!" Sherlock declared. "Well, if your Mum had baked _me_ a cake, I would certainly share it with you. However, since, sadly, she did not, you must make a different choice for breakfast."

"Jam," the child suggested hopefully.

Sherlock's eyes twinkled at the boy. "On toast, or out of the jar with a spoon?" he asked.

Ian laughed joyfully. "Toast! Mum says on'y on toast!"

"Well, your Mum is always right, isn't she? Why don't you sit here and sort out my skull collection while I fix it?"

Ian sat on the floor by the coffee table, shuffling the different skulls about and naming them. "Mice," he began, while Sherlock found the bread.

"One is called a mouse," Sherlock corrected without thinking. "Very good. Try a harder one."

"Cat," Ian declared. "Bunny. Fox. Rat." He piled them on top of each other like blocks and giggled.

"Go and wash now, Ian," Sherlock told him. "It's almost ready." Ian rushed off to the washroom while Sherlock poured a mug of milk and spread jam thickly over the toast.

While Ian sat on one side of the kitchen table and stuffed toast and jam into his mouth, Sherlock sat on the other side, resuming his work with his microscope. A sticky, muffled voice broke the silence. "Can I see?"

Mary's admonition notwithstanding, Sherlock could not let this error slide without addressing it. "Of course you can see, Ian. You have eyes, haven't you?" he said dryly.

Ian giggled and put jam-covered hands over his eyes.

"I believe the question you are reaching for is: '_May_ I see?'" his uncle continued.

"MAY I see!" Ian crowed happily. Sherlock grabbed a washcloth, dampened it, and cleaned the jam from his messy charge. Then he set the excited child on his lap and helped him look into the microscope.

"Squiggoes!" pronounced Ian, clapping his hands. "An' bugs!"

Sherlock's phone then signaled a text. "Is Greg," Ian predicted presciently. And it was. Soon Sherlock was rushing to dress both himself and his nephew to head out to the bank, which Lestrade reported had been mysteriously robbed in the night.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

He grew irritated before he'd even made his way through the bank lobby and behind the counters. "Why, Lestrade, do you let twenty-six people disturb the evidence before you call me?" he demanded without preamble, aggrieved. Determined to lose no more time, Sherlock became immediately focused on the bank vault, ignoring all distractions, including Lestrade himself.

"Nice to see you, too," he heard Lestrade mutter under his breath. "Where's a Watson when you need one?"

"Hi!" Ian yelled happily, appearing at the vault door in his uncle's wake. "I a Watson!"

"What on earth do you think you're doing, bringing a kid to a crime scene?" Donovan exclaimed. "This is no place for a child!" Sherlock ignored her, too.

"Sh'ock needs a 'sistant," Ian informed her importantly.

Lestrade laughed, delighted. "Hey, big guy! So you're Sherlock's assistant today, are you? Good for you!" He swung Ian up in the air, and the two giggled together companionably.

"If you've finished tossing my assistant about, perhaps you can tell me what happened here," Sherlock intoned. He would not allow anyone to see that he was relieved by Lestrade's casual and complete acceptance of Ian's presence. He noted with grudging gratitude that Lestrade had settled the boy on his shoulders, out of harm's way.

"The manager arrived before anyone else this morning and discovered several hundred thousand pounds were missing from the vault. There were some signs of a break-in, but we easily dismissed them as faked." Lestrade winced a bit as Ian's finger dug into his hair for greater stability. "There's no CCTV of anyone entering or exiting the building since closing last night. Only the night watchman has been here, and he noticed nothing out of the ordinary all night."

"Are the security cameras at the vault set to record twenty-four hours a day?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"No, only at night," Donovan supplied. "But the cameras at all the doors are always recording, as well as the ones in the lobby."

"Where's the manager?" Sherlock said peremptorily. He ignored the entirely unnecessary introduction, simply staring at the man for several seconds, making his deductions silently before giving a nod and turning away. All was clear to him now. He just needed the evidence.

"Your uncle is a rude one, isn't he?" he heard Donovan ask Ian behind him.

"Eweven," Ian informed her wisely. Sherlock almost laughed aloud at his precocious nephew's insight, but then suddenly wondered if the perceptive child was referring to Donovan as a troublesome but useful "eleven", or his uncle? Donovan just looked puzzled.

He had pulled out his magnifying glass and was stepping around the inside of the vault, looking at various points of interest. He ignored the utterly pointless technicians, who were dusting for prints and testing the locks; he ignored the completely nongermane offer to view the security video footage of the night before. Why were all these useless people in his way? Why didn't they just go away and let him do his job? All the time, he kept one eye out for his young charge, who remained safely on Lestrade's shoulders. Sherlock had given Ian just three instructions before they arrived: Stay within sight; don't touch anything; and keep Donovan out of his hair. Lestrade was enforcing the first two rules admirably, and Ian was fulfilling the third requirement by shamelessly flirting with Donovan, to good effect. Sherlock smirked, listening to their exchanges. It might cause great amusement in others that Ian's inability to form the "l" sound rendered Sherlock's name into a word they found uncannily appropriate. But that same lack of an "l" turned Donovan's given name into something very much like "Sigh", which Sherlock found an entirely apt appellation.

Finally, his investigation complete, he requested Lestrade take him to the manager's office suite.

Lestrade and Donovan led the way, the bank manager trailing dejectedly behind. Ian squirmed on the DI's shoulders, so Lestrade set him on the floor. The boy grabbed two fingers of Sherlock's hand and trotted importantly along beside him. They all entered the office suite of the manager, and Sherlock froze in the middle of the room, letting go of Ian's hand, his steepled fingers touching his chin, looking all around him, noting details silently.

"You know, we did search the entire premises thoroughly before you arrived," Donovan grumbled, affronted.

He couldn't bear the pride she was showing in her own stupidity. "Of course you did; and naturally, you were particularly careful to examine this suite, since the manager is the prime suspect. No? Well, then you have, as usual, missed every clue relevant to the case. But what could one expect from morons?" Sherlock snapped irritably.

"Sh'ock!" the military tone of the tiny voice was unmistakable. All eyes turned to Ian, who was standing ramrod straight with his right index finger raised imperiously. "Manners, Sh'ock!" the small Watson admonished.

Donovan snorted with laughter, her indignation instantly diffused. Lestrade smothered a snicker and remarked cheerfully, "Always good to have a Watson along to keep things civil."

Sherlock frowned at his little nephew, then conceded. "Fine," he muttered. "My apologies. You're not morons. Just . . . disadvantaged." Ian nodded, satisfied that propriety was restored.

In the meantime, the manager had been standing in a state of shock, his mouth working silently. "Wait, what do you mean, the prime suspect?" he objected when he recovered his voice. "I'm the one who reported the robbery!"

Sherlock turned on him sternly. He had no patience with prevarication. "The state of your clothing, particularly your cuffs, indicates that you have lost a great deal of money of late; the state of your hair and nails tell me that you are under a great deal of nervous stress. The condition of your shoes tell me you have been on a ladder this morning, and your present expression tells me that I have deduced these facts with my usual accuracy. Reporting a crime yourself is the oldest dodge in the book. Strangely enough, you have no security cameras in your office or anywhere en route between the vault and your office. The brackets where they had been are still in place, but the cameras have long since been removed. And the security camera for the vault itself stops recording when you open the bank in the morning, obviously on your orders. You've been planning this robbery for quite some time, haven't you?"

The face of the bank manager had drained of all color and he sat heavily down in a chair, looking ill. Sherlock smirked at him. Then he swirled around to face Lestrade, annoyed by the delay. How could these people not understand what to do YET? "Get the key to the executive washroom and look in the ceiling panels. You'll find the money hidden there," he said, impatiently stating the obvious.

Lestrade gazed at him, paralyzed for a second, then barked to Donovan, "Do it!"

The manager surrendered the key to her with a resigned look on his haggard face. Donovan turned heel and marched from the room, angry to have been shown up by Sherlock again. "Bye, Sigh!" Ian called after her, waving.

Sherlock did not bother with pointless good-byes. He swung Ian up to sit on one arm and strode rapidly out onto the street, grumbling to himself. The case had been too easy, a tremendous waste of his time. Clearly not even a three. He ought not to have come at all. Even Lestrade would certainly have found out the truth, given enough time.

"Was a-mazing!" Ian crowed happily, impressed in spite of the job's simplicity. Sherlock managed a crooked smile as he hailed a cab, feeling encouraged. Yes, Lestrade was right about one thing. It was good to have a Watson when you needed one.


	3. Chapter 3

As a reward to Ian for conducting himself in such an exemplary manner at the crime scene, Sherlock had taken him to the playground in Paddington Street Gardens for an hour of energetic swinging and sliding and running about. It had ended with both of them collapsing in exhaustion on a park bench, winded and happy.

But during the short trudge back to 221b, Ian had indicated quite loudly that he had apparently had enough. A Watson may be longsuffering; but a Watson at the end of his tether also has a temper.

"What would your mother say to all this noise?" Sherlock had demanded as he opened the street door and ushered the boy inside. "Do stop this infernal whining!"

Ian, who had been operating on one slice of toast with jam all morning, had shouted, "I want wunch!"

Mrs. Hudson's door had flown open. "Shame on you, Sherlock. You whine just as much when you're tired and hungry! Bring him in and I'll fix him something to eat." With that, she had limped back into her kitchen, Ian in tow.

Sherlock had retreated to his sitting room, allowing his landlady to feed Ian and put him down for a nap on her sofa. He hated to admit even to himself that taking care of a two-year-old was easily the most strenuous activity he'd ever undertaken. He had meant to take advantage of these few free hours to get some serious work done with his microscope. Instead, he had found the sofa beckoning to him irresistibly, and soon he, too, was having a kip.

Now he sat in his armchair, laptop open before him, ostensibly doing some important research on the fibers of various carpeting; but in reality, he was listening with some fascination to his young nephew, sated and rested, playing with his toy vehicles. Each toy apparently had a name and personality of its own, and Ian was running them up and down the sofa with glee. Sherlock understood calling the ambulance "Mum" and the army jeep "Dad". "Greg" the police car also made sense, as did "Myc" the limousine. What he couldn't fathom was why the red sports car should be called "Sigh". Even more puzzling was why the bulldozer was called "Sh'ock."

Then he noted with amusement and some alarm that the taxi (called, imaginatively, "Cabbie") was apparently the brunt of great animosity from the other vehicles. The army jeep ran the taxi over; the bulldozer shoved it off the sofa altogether; the police car escorted it to prison. Sherlock wondered what repercussions his indiscretions might have when John and Mary found out.

The street door opened. Both Ian's and Sherlock's heads turned towards the stairs. "Mummy?" Ian asked hopefully.

But Sherlock would know those footsteps anywhere. "No, not your Mum," he said. "Aunt Molly." He set his laptop aside and stood with some trepidation. Had John or Mary asked Molly to take Ian away? Had Lestrade called them about his taking a toddler to a crime scene? Or had Mrs. Hudson told them about his delaying Ian's lunch until he had a meltdown? He set his feet apart and crossed his arms over his chest, ready to defend himself if need be.

But Ian had no worries whatsoever. As soon as Molly appeared in the doorway, he launched himself at her, screeching, "M'y! M'y!" She scooped him up and squeezed him until he squeaked.

"Hi, my little bear!" she greeted him, and then set to kissing his plump cheeks several times over until he protested loudly.

"No kisses, M'y!" he exclaimed, squirming until she set him down on his feet. Indignantly, he scrubbed at his face with his chubby hands. Sherlock sighed. Such ignominious treatment. And yet, it seemed to him that every female Ian had contact with was determined to humiliate the boy with cute nicknames and caresses.

Molly chuckled. "So, my little bear is too big for kisses, eh? How about . . . tickles?"

Ian saw the approach of wiggling fingers and shrieked with laughter, rushing to put his uncle between himself and imminent danger. A longsuffering Sherlock, eyes raised to the heavens, stood as an island of sanity amidst chaos as Molly chased Ian around and around him, until at last she caught the child and plopped him on his back on the sofa to tickle him mercilessly, both of them giggling madly.

Breathlessly, Molly kissed the child again and pulled a small package out of her pocket. "Here's a new one for your collection," she offered. Ian threw his arms around her and kissed her back, then excitedly began introducing his other vehicles to the new coroner's wagon called "M'y". Soon, the unfortunate taxi was being taken to the morgue.

Sherlock sat down, watching Molly closely as she giggled with Ian over his toys. No, she had not been summoned there by John or Mary. She had come of her own volition. Perhaps she assumed Sherlock would not be capable of caring for Ian for such an extended period of time. He felt stung by her lack of confidence in his abilities. And yet, hadn't he made quite a number of mistakes with the child? What should he do if she insisted on taking him with her?

"I thought you were working this weekend," he ventured at last.

She nodded, looking at Ian instead of Sherlock. "I was. I worked a twelve hour shift yesterday, got home at seven this morning, and slept for eight hours straight. I have to go back first thing in the morning." She turned her eyes towards him for the first time since she'd arrived. "I was so disappointed about not getting to keep him. I'd been looking forward to it for weeks. I hope you don't mind sharing him for a bit?" she said hesitatingly.

"Of course not," he said quickly, keeping his relief from showing on his face. If she had to work in the morning, there would be no question of her taking Ian from him tonight. "We were about to have our tea-time. Perhaps you would join us?"

She looked amused. "You're eating regular meals? Like normal people?"

He shrugged, feeling a bit sheepish. "It's on the list," he admitted, indicating the paper that was stabbed to his cupboard door with a steak knife. Molly laughed in delight and moved to examine it.

"Haven't you ever heard of push-pins? Or cello-tape?" she asked teasingly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That was Mary's doing. She was most . . . emphatic . . . that I not misplace her instructions for Ian's care."

Molly began to read the list with great amusement as Sherlock put on the kettle. "Number one: Keep all swords, harpoons, throwing stars, and other weapons locked up in the closet at all times, even when Ian is asleep. Number two: Ditto all poisons, chemicals, and caustic materials. Number three: Give him a healthy breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner in a timely manner or he will get quite cranky and you'll deserve the screaming fit he'll throw. Number four: Naptime is at 2:00. Bedtime is at 8:00. I assure you, you will sincerely regret it if you forget. Number five: Make sure he washes before meals and after playing with the skulls. Number six: Clothing is NOT optional. Sheets do not qualify as garments. Keep Ian clothed, as well. Number seven: Only non-violent crime scenes! No exceptions!" She chuckled in delight.

They sat down to tea and digestives, chatting in a friendly way. Tea-time soon merged into supper-time, and Molly joined the boys as they walked down the street to their favorite Chinese place. Ian crowed with delight over his plate of 'worms', turning his nose up at any other offering but noodles. Then it was back to the flat for Ian's bedtime, and still Molly lingered. Sherlock found he had no desire to ask her to leave, and she was clearly enjoying her time with them. She gave Ian his bath and brushed his teeth while Sherlock built a fire.

"Read Bey-woof, Unco Sh'ock!" Ian demanded sleepily after his bath.

Molly was alarmed. "Is he saying "Beowulf? Tell me you didn't read "Beowulf" to a two-year-old!"

Sherlock was defensive. "Only bits of it," he insisted.

"Bey-woof's a he-ro like Dad," Ian informed her seriously. "He beats bad guys."

She snickered. "If your Dad is Beowulf, I supposed that makes Uncle Sherlock Wiglaf, the noble sidekick, doesn't it?" she suggested, chuckling.

Sherlock frowned at the inference. "Hardly. Anyway, we never got that far in the story. I was saving the dragon for tonight."

"Dwagon!" Ian agreed happily, forgetting his nightmare of the night before.

"I don't think so, Ian," Molly interfered. "Let's read something a bit tamer, all right?" She rummaged in Ian's bag of books and produced a Beatrice Potter. Soon Ian was snuggled in her lap, nodding off as she droned on about rabbits in a soothing voice. Sherlock had to admit that, as a bedtime story, "Peter Rabbit" was much more effective than his choice had been—it had taken hours for Ian to settle down enough to sleep last night after the overly exciting tale.

The little boy was soon carried gently to bed, and Sherlock and Molly sat with a last cuppa before the fire. She still seemed in no rush to leave, and he surprised himself with being fine with that. Watching Molly with Ian had shown him something of the deep joy and contentment that comes with peaceful domesticity. He had never had any inclination to such a lifestyle before. Even seeing John and Mary together had stirred no such interest in him—they seemed to him to be unique in their ability to make it work. But Molly, he found himself thinking, made a domestic life look . . . possible. Maybe even . . . nice. Strange—he had known her for years, but it had taken Ian Watson to show him who she really was.

"Good night, Sh'ock," Molly said when at last she rose to head for home, gently teasing him.

"Good night, M'y," he returned in amusement. And it occurred to him how well the nickname sounded to him. It was food for thought, indeed.


End file.
